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The rain had settled to a mist as they came out and trotted back toward the road to Ahrensfelde. Mattie followed Burkhart mutely, feeling battered by what she’d seen underground.
Chris was gone. He would always be gone.
When she was almost to the police barrier the first bomb detonated.
Mattie spun around.
Smoke and dust billowed out the windows and doors before a giant, deafening eruption hurled Mattie off her feet and blew the slaughterhouse to smithereens.
BOOK TWO
WAISENHAUS 44
CHAPTER 29
JACK MORGAN WALKED down a hallway in a large two-story apartment north of Monbijou Park in central Berlin.
He was following a slim, pale man in his late twenties with ice-blue eyes, pierced eyebrows, a long black trench coat
, bleached white hair, and leather half gloves with studs, all of which made him look like he belonged in a vampire movie.
But Daniel Brecht was one of Private’s best detectives in Europe, a fascinating character who slipped easily through cultures and languages.
Brecht shifted a black book bag to his left shoulder, wrapped his studs on the door, and turned the handle. They entered a dark room that smelled of sex.
Brecht flicked a switch. Light flooded the bedroom.
An angry, fit, caramel-colored man shot up in bed and began shouting at them in Portuguese. Morgan didn’t understand a word Cassiano was saying.
Brecht did. He flashed his badge, which cooled the soccer player. That’s when Morgan noticed the woman, a blonde with enormous breasts, who lay passed out next to Cassiano.
It surprised Morgan. Earlier he’d seen Internet photos of the striker’s wife, Perfecta, a Brazilian model with stunning, exotic looks and an incredible body. The woman in the bed looked plain in comparison.
Over the next five minutes, Brecht interrogated Cassiano and translated for Morgan.
“You know Christoph Schneider?” Brecht asked. “He works for Private.”
The striker shook his head. “Never heard of him.”
“Where’s your wife?” Brecht asked, nodding at the passed-out woman.
Cassiano shrugged and smiled. “Perfecta’s on a photo shoot in Africa. Be back the day after tomorrow.”
“Be tough if she found out you had a sleepover,” Morgan said.
The athlete sobered. “Okay. So I met with Schneider for ten minutes last Monday. He asked me about games where I played poorly earlier in the season.”
“You mean these?” Brecht asked, removing an iPad from his carryall. He gave it a command and a clip played of Cassiano missing a great pass.
“We looked at all the videos this morning,” Morgan said. “You don’t look anything like the scoring machine you are in other games.”
“I was sick, nauseated all those times, the shits,” Cassiano said indignantly. “I went to doctor. He says I am having problem with German food. It came and went, but I still played. Sick. Hurt. I play. I’m known for that.”
“Sure you weren’t taking a dive?” Morgan asked.
Cassiano turned furious after Brecht translated, and started shouting at him in Portuguese. “No way. There is World Cup in three years. Do you honestly think I’d screw that up?”
Brecht gestured at the woman, who had stirred and groaned at the shouting. “You look like you’re trying to screw up a marriage with a supermodel, so what do we know?”
